Sidekick: The Misadventures of the New Scarlet Knight (7 page)

“I’ve been busy, that’s all.”

“You haven’t been busy with homework, apparently. Mr. Franks told me you blew off another Spanish assignment, and all your other teachers have confirmed you’ve been slacking off. You’re slipping from an ‘A’ student to a ‘B’ student, and you’re in danger of sliding even further. You’re not going to get into Harvard with—”

“I’m not getting into Harvard, period. I got my rejection letter over the weekend.” I didn’t bother telling her how I worked through the anger issues it brought out. She groaned and gave me that I’d-like-to-sympathize-with-you look.

“Sorry to hear it, but it’s still not a reason to give up. You can—”

“I am
not
giving up!” Shocked by the vehemence of my denial, I took a couple seconds to regain my composure, and then continued at a more reasonable volume. “I’ve just been … very busy, that’s all. I haven’t been able to devote as much time to studying as I used to, and as for homework … ”

I couldn’t tell her that I considered it more important to save her and everyone else in this city from Sigmund the Sea Monster’s evil brother than to recount the weekend activities of a bunch of
Madrilleno
slackers, could I? “Let’s just say I’ve had my hands full on the home front.”

“Maybe if we worked on better time management … ”

“I’m sorry. My main time management problem is simply that I don’t have enough hours in the day anymore. And don’t accuse me of partying too much or anything like that; those were the first things to disappear from my schedule. Heck, they were barely there to begin with.”

“Okay, no need to get so defensive, Bobby. I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just trying to help.”

“I know.” I leaned back and tried to regain my equilibrium. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Like I said, I’m just overwhelmed right now. You know what it’s like. I promise I will do everything possible to stop this ‘slide’ you’re so worried about. Will that reassure you?”

It was her turn to lean back. “If you can do that, yes. You’ve come so far, I just don’t want to see you blow it.”

“I have no intention of doing that. No matter what else has changed in my life since we talked back in September, I can tell you that my intentions regarding college haven’t. And I appreciate all the help you’ve given me.” I stood. A little presumptuous, perhaps, but the last month on the job had taught me it was usually safer to be the one who initiated the end of conversations; the best way to avoid answering questions was to avoid letting them be asked. “Can I go now?”

“Yes, you may.” She smiled a little, just enough to make me feel a tiny bit better about everything. I grabbed my stuff and walked to the door. Before I could turn the knob, however, my brain interrupted with a way that Mrs. Carr might be able to help, after all.

“Oh, one last question. Where do you folks at the Ren-faire get your swords?”

***

As soon as I stepped off the bus in the middle of downtown, I saw the place Mrs. Carr had told me about. You really couldn’t miss it. It was one of those hole-in-the-wall storefronts that tend to sit vacant now that all the old mom-and-pop stores have pretty much dried up and blown away, except it was entirely black: black door, black awning, even black windows. About the only thing that wasn’t black was the name in subtle white letters above the door: “Hephaestus’s Forge.”

I was going to have to mention the place to Auntie Clytemnestra, who had an appreciation for anyone who actually understood the Greek myths. So did I. I had acquired an interest in them from my insatiable reading habits as a kid, but Clytemnestra helped me hone my appreciation of them.

Entering the shop, it was obvious why the guy had picked the name. He looked like the old Greek god, himself—big, ugly, and lame, but with an unexpectedly cheery disposition—and dressed as a pirate. Of course, being a kid who dressed up in metallic long johns each night, I wasn’t about to pass judgment.

The shopkeeper made his way over to me. “Greetings, lad,” he said in classic Robin Hood English, his British accent fading in and out for no reason at all. “And what brings a young gentleman like ye to me humble shop?” A few other customers, apparently used to his shtick, rolled their eyes.

“God ye good e’en, my good man.” I put on my very best fake-medieval accent and vocal mannerisms. “I require a new blade. I take it you are the local smithy and sword-maker here?”

“Ay, that I may be.” He winked conspiratorially. “If ye be of sufficient age to be wielding the iron without me risking being clasped in it for selling it to ye.”

I chuckled and pulled my driver’s license out and tossed it to him. He looked at it before handing it back. “Seriously, what can I do you for, kid?” The fake-Brit was gone, thankfully, revealing an accent more New York than Old York.

“Just like I said, I need to replace a sword. Friend of mine from the Ren-faire sent me. What do you have?”

“Take a look up on the wall. Got a few for you to pick from.”

He waved at them like he was showing off all the prizes you could win if the Price was Right. A couple of rapiers, polished to a high gloss, that would never survive more than a couple of blows in actual combat. A few fencing epées that would snap in half if I used them the way I’d been trained. Some big, heavy-looking things encrusted with fake jewels and shit, purely for ceremony or for drawing out of a stone, not for real combat.

“Nice work. They look good, but I’m really looking for something a little more … practical.”

“Practical? There’s no practical way to use a sword nowadays. They’re all for show, which is exactly what you’ll need to work the Faire.” (Great, he pronounced the trailing “e” on the word, too.) He reached under the counter and pulled out a long linen bag, from which he pulled a beauty of a longsword. “This one’s the most practical sword I’ve ever made—lightweight but strong—enough give to work well in a fight without snapping.”

“Wow.” I’d seen some nice weapons over the years, but this one? This was a work of genius. And you could tell that it was crafted with such love that it wasn’t so much forged as born. “She really is a beauty.”

“She’s my baby.”

“Can I hold her?”

He hesitated. I knew then that I’d never be able to talk him into parting with the sword, but I still wanted to feel it in my hands. That’s the only way to truly appreciate a piece of art. I waited as his expressions cycled through the expected emotions: fear, reluctance, and finally, pride. Slowly, he extended his hands, presenting me with his masterpiece. With the lightest touch and the utmost reverence, I took hold of the hilt and lifted the sword.

It was light and balanced perfectly in my hand, but I felt the heft it would carry with it when swung. The sword fit in my hand better than anything I’d ever held, like it was a part of me. With a heavy heart, I went to return it to its maker.

And I would have, too, if the door hadn’t chosen that minute to explode.

The room filled with smoke and panic—in that order. Reflexively, I shielded my face, expecting splinters from the door or shards of glass from a window to fly forward, but after a few seconds, and none of the expected pain, I lowered my forearm and squinted against the spreading smoke.

My brain cycled through all the villains Uncle Jack and I had fought, trying to figure out who would enter like that. We’d dealt with a lot of creeps who like to shake down and rob little operations like the Forge, but none of them ever arrived in a puff of smoke.

The air cleared, and I was able to get a good look at the newcomer. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him before.

He was slightly shorter than me and covered in black from head to toe. Even his face was completely covered in ultra-fine mesh fabric. The costume wasn’t as tight as most I’d seen, but it was snug enough not to trip him in the heat of action. A red sash tied around his waist served as a belt of sorts with a sack tucked over it. A jewel robber, not exactly something new here in Harbor City, but something was different about this one.

“Attention!” The robber’s voice was tinny and artificial, probably from one of those electronic voice-modifier thingies toy stores sell. “Do what you are told and no one will get hurt. I want you to … ”

By that point, the smoke had cleared enough that we could both see each other clearly. At first, I couldn’t figure out why the sight of me would stop him mid-sentence; I wasn’t in uniform, so he couldn’t have known who I was.

Then it hit me. When the explosion went off, I had reflexively assumed a defensive posture—with a sword in my hand. So this robber, who had just said no one would get hurt if they didn’t screw with him, found himself confronted by a kid wielding a sword as if ready to lop his head off.

So much for cooperation.

“Get out of here!” I screamed to the customers and the shopkeeper. “Back door, if there is one. Call 911 once you’re safely away. I’ll hold him off.”

They didn’t move.

“
NOW
!” I had no way of knowing where the lung capacity for such a shout came from, but it was enough to scare the bystanders into action. The customers clambered over each other to get as far away from the robber (or the lunatic teenager with the sword) as their feet could take them. The blacksmith, apparently unwilling to part with his baby, just ducked behind the counter.

“I don’t know who you are,” I told the interloper, “and I’m really not in a mood to find out, especially after the day I’ve had. So why don’t you just pop out of here, and we’ll call it … ”

I froze as the robber reached into one of his pockets (another advantage the getup had over the usual super-guy costume). I got enough of a hint of cheekbones under the thick black nothing of his mask to be pretty sure he was smiling. He pulled out something that looked like an old TV remote with …

You have got to be shitting me
.

I recognized it immediately, even before he pushed the button that caused the blade to shoot out of the base to its full length.

That bastard had the Scarlet Knight’s sword. That bastard was wielding a weapon he had taken off Uncle Jack’s body.

That bastard was the man who had killed my Uncle Jack.

Secret Origins

Seeing the Scarlet Knight’s sword in this bozo’s hands brought on a flood of memories, starting with the first time I’d ever seen it and working backward from there, like my life flashing before my eyes in reverse.

My mother wasn’t the most beautiful woman in the world if you want to use objective measures, but every boy is blind where his mother is concerned. What I remember the most is that she was warm, and when her arms were around me, nothing in the world could hurt me. That’s how I remember her. If that’s not the case, I don’t care.

And I remember in excruciating detail the day we buried her when I was five. I didn’t understand what my pop was talking about when he was trying to explain about ectopic pregnancies and hemorrhaging, but I remembered every word.

Likewise, don’t confuse my not liking to talk about my pop all that much with not remembering him. I don’t hate him now that he’s gone, but I still don’t have to like him, do I? As hard as my mother’s death was for me, it had to have been a thousand times worse for him, and he became restless and aimless. We moved around a lot, and he took on odd jobs wherever we went, trying to keep food on the table and even a temporary roof over our heads. Once I was old enough to do a decent job shoveling snow or wielding a hammer, I did jobs with him, essentially turning us into a two-income household.

When we finally landed in Harbor City, he stopped doing handyman jobs and took up ones that had … a much better return on investment. I traded in my hammer and spade for a nice new bicycle, complete with a front basket. I rode it everywhere, quickly learning the streets of my new hometown. Hardly a day went by that I wasn’t out there on my bike, and hardly a bike trip passed that I didn’t have some parcel in my basket from Pop. I never asked what was inside, and I never peeked. I just carried them from one place to another like I was told.

Of course, as with just about any business, the high returns carried high risks. The day everything finally came to a head, just like the day I lost my mother, is one I remember in vivid detail.

It started out as a typical delivery job—a few packages to a warehouse on Ocean Avenue. Nothing to raise the hair on the back of my neck, but something kept nagging me and made sure I stayed alert. If I hadn’t been keeping my eyes and ears open, what was left of my life would have been a hell of a lot different.

I had arrived early and was headed inside when I heard two men talking a little louder than they probably should have been. Most of their words washed over me, but when Pop’s name came up, I went into full-blown high-alert mode. I stepped back as quietly as I could and laid myself flat against the wall next to the door.

I only managed to catch two out of every three words, but I got enough to fill in the gaps. It turned out the guy up the criminal food chain from the warehouse bozos had gotten it into his head that Pop and I were no longer to be trusted. That was all I needed to hear. I dropped the packages, turned tail, and dashed back to my bike as quickly as I could.

You can guess what happened. That’s why I never again locked a bicycle when I left it somewhere. Better to lose it than run the risk of getting knocked out while kneeling and trying to dial a combination.

That day, I didn’t have to wait for my vision to return to know I was in deep shit. The first thing I noticed was the stink of the guy leaning over me, a weird mix of body odor, onion breath, and a whiff of cigar.

“Wake up, twerp.” Ah. My hearing was coming back too. And the chafing of the rope around my wrists and the hard wood under my ass let me know my sense of touch was back. Oh, and that I was tied to a chair, too. Maybe if he leaned in just a wee bit closer I could bite him and see if my sense of taste was back.

“I said
wake up
,
kid.” A quick backhanded smack upside my head got me seeing stars. At least I was seeing something. I gingerly opened my eyes and stared up at the jerk with the cigar. I’d seen him before at a few of the stops on my delivery route and assumed he was someone just a little bit more important than me and thus unlikely to care about my well-being.